old outside men. Two of our four cars, and all our horses but one had
been requisitioned. That did not upset us. We had taken on the wives
of some of the men, among them Angéle, the pretty wife of one of the
French chauffeurs, and her two-months-old baby into the bargain. We
still had two cars, that, at a pinch, would carry the party, and we
still had one mount in case of necessity.

The question arose as to whether we should break up and make for the
nearest port while we could, or "stick it out." It had been finally
agreed not to evacuate--_yet_. One does not often get such a chance to
see a country at war, and we were all ardent spectators, and all
unattached. I imagine not one of us had at that time any idea of
being useful--the stupendousness of it all had not dawned on any of
us--unless it was the Doctor.

But after the decision of "stick" had been passed unanimously, the
Critic, who was a bit of a sentimentalist, and if he were anything
else was a Norman Angel-lite, stuck his hands in his pockets, and
remarked: "After all, it is perfectly safe to stay, especially now
that England is coming in."

"You think so?" said the Doctor.

"Sure," smiled the Critic. "The Germans will never cross the French
frontier this time. This is not 1870."

"Won't they, and isn't it?" replied the Doctor sharply.

"They never can get by Verdun and Belfort."